“This contains your storm—every wind you summoned, and every gust, gale, and bolt of lightning.” He bounces it in his palm, like it’s a trinket to be played with. “I’ve also added every other wind that blows across these waters… minus the one that will carry you to the Pillars of Hercules.”
Callie releases the rope she was holding, positioning herself closer to the group. “So, what’s the catch?” she asks.
“The catch is simple.” Aeolus’s eyes sweep across all of us, wind following in their path. “Don’t open the bag.”
I blink, making sure I heard him right. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” His smile returns, sharp and unpleasant. “Of course, Odysseus’s crew thought the same thing. ‘Don’t open the bag,’ their captain told them. Simple instruction. Easy to follow. For nine days they sailed, getting closer and closer to home, until they were almost there and curiosity got the best of them.”
Evie wipes her hands on her pants, as if her palms still burn where the magic exited to create her heat shield. “They thought it was treasure,” she explains, quiet and sure. “They thought Odysseus was hoarding gold while they did all the work. So, they opened it while he slept, and all the winds escaped at once.”
“The storm blew them back out to sea.” Aeolus nods at her approvingly. “They wandered for years after that. Odysseus was the only one who survived and made it home.”
“So why would we open it?” I ask.
“Because you’re mortal.” Aeolus shrugs. “Because you’re tired, frightened, and curious. Because someone will convince themselves they need ‘just a little wind’ to adjust the sails, or they’ll hear something inside and wonder what it is, or they’ll forget, or they’ll doubt, or they’ll make the same mistake every mortal makes—believing they know better than the gods.”
His eyes lock onto mine.
“And because you, Tempest’s champion, will feel the storm calling to you, begging to be released,” Aeolus says, his gaze sweeping across Kieran with his blade, Evie with the remnants of her star charts, Callie with her sharp eyes, and Logan with his perfect control. “Now the question remains—who’s going to take the bag?”
Before any of us have a chance, Evie steps forward. “I understand the importance of not tampering with unknown magical artifacts,” she says. “I know the mythology, and I know the consequences. I’m the one who should take it.”
Aeolus studies her for a long moment, and I hold my breath, worried he might say no.
Finally, he nods in approval and places the bag in her hands.
Her fingers close around the leather, and her shoulders straighten, as if purpose is settling into her bones.
“Guard it well,” Aeolus says. “Your journey depends on it.”
“I will.”
He nods once, his eyes landing on me again. “When you see Tempest, tell her that Aeolus saved her champion when she couldn’t bother to show up herself. Tell her I cleaned up her mess. Tell her I hope it chokes her.”
With that, he floats off the boat and onto the ocean. Then he’s walking away, each step sending ripples across the mirror-still surface, and the clouds swallow him piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the wind that will bring us to the Pillars of Hercules and the water stretching in every direction.
The ship creaks as new wind catches our remaining sails, and then we’re moving, slow and steady, like we’re being pulled by an invisible hand.
“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Callie breaks the silence, the gentleness in her tone worse than cruelty. “That Tempest’s champion needed a wind god to clean up her mess.”
Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.
“Callie.” Logan cuts her off with a single word.
“I’m just observing.” She shrugs, pushing off from the railing. “And I’ll admit that after what Aeolus said, I suppose Circe was right that Jade was chosen by a cosmic goddess.” Her eyes find mine, and the sympathy in them is worse than mockery. “But a god ripped the storm out of her like he was pulling a weed. And he looked at her like...”
She trails off, since we all know how he looked at me.
“Maybe the lightning isn’t a gift,” she continues, low and menacing. “Maybe it’s a curse. After all...” She tilts her head, studying me in a way that makes electricity crackle at my fingertips. “Curses and blessings are often similar from the outside. Look at Ambrogio, for instance. Blessed with strength and immortality, cursed with bloodlust and the loss of his soul. Is there actually a difference at all? Or are they one and the same, dressed in different packages?”
Her words hit like a fist to my ribs, although one of them stands out far more than the rest.
Curse.
Maybe my magic is a curse.
After being unable to save Oliver at the Crown, after watching the hellhounds kill my friends, and after almost drowning us at sea, haven’t I wondered the same thing?